


Twitch

by SugarsweetRomantic



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Culture, Discrimination, F/F, Hard of Hearing, Mutism, The Westfall Family Farm, selective mutism, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: Franky Doyle never speaks. She never attempts even the slightest form of communication. All she ever does is incessantly move her hands.Bridget Westfall is intrigued.





	1. 60 Decibel

Bridget Westfall smiled gently as she was led around her new workplace, Wentworth Correctional Centre, by the calm-natured deputy governor, Vera Bennett. Miss Bennett, as she had introduced herself. Bridget didn’t like speaking to people on a last-name-basis. It felt too formal, too distant. It felt like titles and job descriptions were all that could be used to identify a person with. She had told Vera - Miss Bennett - to call her Bridget, but so far, all she’d used had been ‘Miss Westfall’. Maybe Bridget would have to learn to accept that this was a formal location. However, she wasn’t about to give in this easily. 

 

Vera was leading her around the cell blocks. Most of the blocks were empty, as the women were currently performing their work duties. 

“This,” the petite brunette continued, “is H3. Our current top dog, Jacs Holt, is in that cell over there.” Ah, Bridget thought, the infamous top dog. King shit, as they liked to call it at most men’s prisons. It had been the same at Barwon and Port Phillip, and she had heard that it hadn’t been different at Walford lately. The female inmates seemed a bit more delicate than the blokes when it came to naming the person at the top of the prison hierarchy. The hierarchy itself intrigued Bridget, and she had written entire articles on the topic for psychology magazines around the country. She even spoke at conventions every now and then. Yet, nothing intrigued the forensic psychologist more than the people who seemed to be unaffected by the hierarchy. The ones who could move around freely, almost invisible to the rest.

 

The stiff woman took her through a bunch of hallways until they reached large double doors marking  _ Laundry _ . She pushed them open to reveal a group of women standing behind workstations, working their way through a large load of sheets and clothing. After Vera nodded to the middle-aged inmate standing behind the steam press, the woman in question silenced the rest with a simple nod of the head. That had to be the top dog. She just had to be. Clearing her throat, the deputy announced: “Ladies, this is Miss Westfall.”

“Bridget,” the blonde corrected.

“Miss Westfall is the new psychologist, and she will be conducting group sessions as well as individual sessions.” Bridget chuckled inwardly at Vera’s refusal to use her first name. Oh well, she could just as well tell the women that later. “These are inmates Holt, Slater, Smith, Anderson, Birdsworth, Conway, Jenkins, Chang, Pierson and Warner.” All of the mentioned women nodded or smiled at Bridget when their names were mentioned, and Pierson waved giddily. Bridget’s attention was caught by the lanky, pale brunette standing in the corner. She was standing still, except for a constant moving of her hands.

“And who are you?” she asked, motioning at the girl.

“That’s Twitch!” the woman who had been pointed out as Slater called out. From the corner of her eyes, Bridget could see the woman in question wince at the insulting nickname. 

“Her name is Francesca Doyle, but she does not talk, so I doubt your sessions would be of any use to her.” The statement came from behind her, and Bridget spun around to face the tall figure of the woman who had been introduced to her as Governor Joan Ferguson.

“I’d like to speak with her, Governor.” The request had left her mouth without much thinking.”If that’s alright with you, Francesca,” she added. The girl gave her a blank stare.

“ _ Qui tacet consentire videtur _ ,” the Governor commented with a smirk. Bridget shook her head and repeated the statement in plain English: “She who is silent is taken to agree.” 'I took Latin 101 too, Joan,' Bridget thought to herself. “Certainly there is no need for me to remind a woman such as yourself that silence never equals consent, Governor,” she added with a friendly smile. The woman was giving her the creeps, and this after only a few minutes of having been in her presence.

 

Surely, a few hours later, the guard who had introduced himself as Will Jackson was at her office door, escorting one Francesca Doyle in for her first session. 

“Please, take a seat,” Bridget encouraged her, motioning at the hideously lime green armchairs she had been ‘blessed’ with. Francesca let her lanky frame plop down into the one on the right without any form of grace or elegance.

 

Bridget sat back to observe the tall, skinny woman sitting across from her. She was looking down at the ground, but she could see a certain decisiveness in her eyes. Francesca was moving her hands uncontrollably, seemingly unable to keep them still. Or maybe, Bridget thought, she just didn't know any better. Suddenly the fidgeting caught her attention. She'd seen it before. Her entire childhood had been filled with these exact handshapes, though perhaps in a different order. Bridget concentrated on the movements for a minute, before chuckling and commenting: "I'm not a doctor."

 

The brunette looked like her eyes were about to pop out of her head. 

 

“So you can fingerspell,” Bridget stated, motioning carefully at Franky's left hand which was still stuck in the C-shape. The silent inmate quickly pulled her hands into her sleeves, so the psychologist couldn't see them. 

“I'm only trying to help you, Francesca,” the blonde sighed. All of a sudden the younger woman's hands shot out of the sleeves again. Carefully and patiently, she spelled. Smiling, Bridget confirmed: “Franky it is.”

 

Bridget leant back once again, letting a comfortable silence rest in the air. People thought psychologists could read you best when you spoke to them, but in reality, Bridget felt like the way someone behaved themselves during a moment of silence was much more telling than any words could ever be. Franky seemed to enjoy the absence of noise. Suddenly, Bridget considered the possibility that maybe Franky's hearing was affected too, beside the mutism, or maybe that she preferred non-verbal communication. 

“Can you understand me like this?” she signed, slowly and precisely. Franky raised an eyebrow at her. That was a no then. Sighing softly, she tried to reason with the inmate: “Look, Franky, if you don't want to talk, you don't have to. But from the looks of it, I'm the only one who even managed to figure out you were telling me to ‘fuck off’. All I'm trying to say, is that I can voice for you, in the literal sense of the word.” She laid her hands on her thighs, palms upward. I'm not a threat. Franky's hands came out again. Bridget studied them carefully. Her fingerspelling was clumsy and somewhat off, but she managed to get the three-letter message across: “How?”

“My parents are deaf, and so is my brother.” She considered her next move for a second before raising a hand to her right ear, and carefully pulling on the short string that allowed her to take the tiny device out of the canal. The psychologist handed it to Franky. This was a dangerous decision. The inmate could crush it if she wanted to, but instead Franky lifted it to her eyes and studied it. Shaking her head slightly, she raised an eyebrow at the blonde. Bridget smiled gently, and explained: “That's an in-canal hearing aid. I'm hard of hearing, Franky.” 


	2. 160 Decibel

Bridget smiled as she took a left turn, leading her through familiar gates. The Westfall family owned a large farm a few hours from the city, and returning to the acres always felt like coming home to where she truly belonged. The blonde loved her busy life in Melbourne, but she'd always be a farmer's’ daughter at heart. Dirt blew up into the air as she got closer to the main building, where she could already spot her mother standing on the front porch, waving enthusiastically. Killing the engine, Bridget quickly pulled her hearing aids out of her ears and switched them off, before putting them in their case and exiting the vehicle. There was no use for them here anyway, and they always ended up giving her a headache at the end of the day.

“Hi Mum,” she signed to the woman who was walking towards her. She let her mother envelope her in a hug. Julia Westfall was a small, slim-built  woman with the same piercing blue eyes as her daughter, who cared more about her family and animals than anything else in the world. 

“Hello Bridget,” her mum replied. “How was your trip?” 

“Long!” the blonde joked. “Where are Dad and Oliver?” Her mother shrugged, nodding towards the fields. The men could spend all day out with the cattle, only coming back to the house to eat. 

“I'll go find them to say hi, but I need to change first!” Bridget motioned at the fitted navy short-sleeved blouse and knitted skirt she was wearing. She had headed out to the farm immediately after finishing her last session at Wentworth. Luckily she'd been able to finish early, so there still was some of the afternoon left.

“That's our city girl!” Julia laughed, and her daughter put her hands on her hips 

 

A few minutes later, Bridget had dragged her suitcase into her childhood bedroom and had changed into a soft cotton T-shirt and jeans, exchanging her heels for a pair of brown leather boots. She'd taken her hair out of its updo and braided it instead. Glancing into the mirror, she smiled. It was as if she'd never left. 

 

The blonde psychologist found her mother standing in the large family kitchen, cutting up vegetables. 

“Can I help?” she asked. Julia shook her head. 

“Come here,” her mum signed, grabbing a kerchief from a drawer and tying it around Bridget’s hair. “There! Just like when you were a teenager!” Her daughter smiled, and added: “You can take the girl out of the countryside…” 

“Go say hello to the boys! They're probably near the cattle. One of the buggies should be out back. And bring them some water while you're at it!” Her mother handed her three ice-cold bottles of water and all but shoved her out of the kitchen. Shaking her head, Bridget exited the building and walked around the house until she reached the blue farm buggy Julia had mentioned. The kitchen was her domain, and even though everyone always offered to help, she always prepared the food by herself. That's how it always had been, and how it always would be, Bridget mused. 

 

It was a short drive that brought her to the fields with the cattle, and as Bridget neared the animals, she could spot her father and brother standing side-by-side. The heads of the cows turned into her direction, making the two men aware of her arrival. 

“Little Bridget!” her brother Oliver signed, waving just as enthusiastically as her mother had been before. Working on the farm all his life had left Oliver muscular, making his tall frame seem quite imposing at first glance. However, he was the sweetest man Bridget knew, with a soft spot for his younger sister.

“Hi sweetheart,” her father added while she stepped out of the buggy. “Good to see you.” Both men pulled her in for a hug, and her father kissed her forehead. Frank Westfall was a plump older gentleman. He was wearing the same hat he had worn ever since Bridget could remember. Julia had tried to make him get rid of it for years, but he refused to. It seemed that by now it had become a part of who he was.

“It's good to see you two too,” Bridget responded. She handed them both a bottle of water. “Can I help?”

“We're just inspecting our girls,” Frank replied. “If you want, you can go check Muffin over there.” Nodding, Bridget walked over to the heifer, careful approaching her.

“Hi sweetie!” she cooed, offering her hand to the young animal to sniff. A soft nudge against her fingers told her Muffin - a name undoubtedly chosen by her mother - trusted her, and she got to work, gently examining her eyes and teeth. “You've got a lovely set of eyes there, little Miss Muffin!” she joked out loud. She could see her father chuckling at her in the corner of her eye. Her family didn't really understand why she had felt the need to learn how to voice, and to be fair, she thought, she would have had a perfectly fine life out here on the farm if she had wanted to. But young Bridget Westfall had wanted more than life on the farm, and until all hearing people learnt Auslan, that meant learning to communicate with them. Her mother had cried when she had learnt her daughter could hear, albeit barely, her father had once confided in her. Julia Westfall had been worried to death that she would never be able to fully understand her daughter. Instead, reality had proven otherwise. Bridget felt like she got the best of both worlds handed to her: she lived a ‘normal’, hearing life in Melbourne, and at the same time she had the opportunity to return to the farm and relax in a tiny Deaf* community. 

 

Suddenly Oliver appeared in her line of sight.

“How is she?” he asked, running a hand along the bovine’s spine and gently caressing her sides.

“Just as beautiful as ever,” Bridget replied with a smile as she placed a kiss on Muffin’s nose. Working with animals was one thing she really did miss about living on the farm, though, she mused, perhaps Wentworth could be considered as being filled with animals as well - and she wasn't thinking of the inmates. A tap on her shoulder drew her attention to her father, who signed: “We should head back. Mum will have dinner ready soon.” 

“Race ya to the buggies!” Oliver told his sister before running off towards the fence gate. Laughing heartily, Bridget took off after him, sprinting across the grass. Frank was left behind them, calmly walking the distance to the blue and yellow vehicles. By the time he got there, Oliver was cheering while his daughter attempted to catch her breath. Frank shook his head. Even after over forty years, everything was still the same. 

 

Shortly after dinner both parents went to bed, leaving the dishes for their children. Bridget and Oliver took care of them quickly, though both ended up quite a bit wetter than before. While Oliver changed into clean clothes, his sister went out back. She was gone when he entered the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of wine, two glasses and some sun-dried tomatoes and exited the house, walking down the path that led to the stables. Surely, as he had expected, he found Bridget up in the hay-loft, sitting with her back against a bale of hay. Climbing the ladder, he sat down across from her and unceremoniously dumped his offerings between them. Only now could he see that there was a kitten in her lap which she was stroking gently.

“I thought I'd find you up here,” he signed. She only smiled, deep in thought. “Hey, what's going on in that complicated mind of yours?” he asked, lightly tapping her knee. 

“Can I ask your advice?” Bridget asked. “As a little sister needing her big brother?” Oliver raised a finger to his wrist and angled his fist - yes. Smiling, the blonde psychologist continued: “There's a young woman I've started working with.” Her movements were controlled and precise, to avoid rousing the kitten that had fallen asleep. “She's mute, but she can fingerspell. I've only had three sessions with her yet. She can't sign, and she often refuses to spell. I just don't know how to initiate communication with her.” Oliver sat still for a moment before asking a question in return: “Little sister, what do Mum and Dad and I do when someone can't sign?” Bridget’s brow furrowed. 

“You point; you read and you write things down.”

“Exactly. Who says she has to sign? Have you tried giving her something to write on?” Bridget touched her wrist and flicked her fist - no. No, she hadn't tried that. It was a brilliant idea. Suddenly a noise caught her attention. 

“Bridget? What is it?” A noise like this that was loud enough for her to hear could only mean one thing.

“I just heard a gunshot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Deaf is written with a capital D on purpose here, as it signifies Deaf culture and all those who belong to it. For more information, I'd like to encourage you to read “Deafness as Culture”, an article by Edward Dolnick in the Atlantic Monthly of September 1993, available at http://gallyprotest.org/atlantic_monthly.pdf. If that's a bit too scientific, the Wikipedia article at https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deaf_culture is quite good as well.


	3. 40 Decibel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Description of attempted physical and sexual assault. Chapter can be skipped; next chapter deals with the aftermath.

Forgetting the wine and tomatoes, both Westfall children quickly jumped down from the hay-loft, landing next to the horses.

“Are you sure?” Oliver asked as they rushed towards the house.

“Yes, it has to be. I'm not wearing them.” She touched her ears. “So it was loud.” Bridget's brother nodded while they sprinted towards the large farmhouse.

“Oh for God's sake!” Bridget exclaimed when Frank suddenly came into view. Her father was standing on the porch, wielding a bolt-action rifle. When he saw his kids, he lowered the barrel. “What in the world, Dad?” Oliver added: “Bridget heard the gun. You scared the life out of us!” Chuckling, Frank explained: “Your mother thought she'd seen a feral pig. You know how dangerous they are. I'm sorry, little bug, I forgot you'd hear it.” He unloaded the firearm and put the safety back on. “Were you up in the hay?” The blonde nodded. “Your thinking place.” Bridget nodded again. Her father knew her well. “Did it help?” She smiled.

“Yes, it did.”

 

When Franky entered her cell on Monday evening after finishing dinner, there was a flat package laying on her bed. She frowned. This had better not be someone messing with her again. Tearing the brown wrapping paper away, she unveiled a notebook and pencils, along with what seemed to be a hand-painted alphabet chart. A note was attached to them. In the same handwriting as the chart, it read: “Franky - There's more ways to communicate than just one. The notebook is waterproof.” It was signed with a drawing of two hands. The thumbs were touching the index fingers and the fingertips were touching as well. Franky smiled. A letter B. She folded the note into fours and hid it under her pillow. 

 

A soft knock at the door caught her attention. Liz Birdsworth was standing in the doorway.

“Hey Francesca, we're going to play charades. Do you want to join? I know you can't really guess, but maybe it can be fun?” Franky held up the notebook. “Oh that's lovely!” She flipped it open and wrote: ‘I prefer Franky.’ Winking, Liz replied: “Well why didn't you say so?” She walked back into the common area while announcing: “Girls, it seems we've had it wrong all this time. This is Franky. And she's going to play with us!” 

 

Later that night, Franky was sitting on the couch next to Liz, while the rest had gone to bed. The older woman was crocheting as Franky doodled in the notebook.

“It's easier to talk to you now, huh Franky?” Liz asked, motioning at the stationery. The brunette nodded. “That's good then,” the other woman decided. Yeah, Franky thought. Really good.

 

Two weeks later, Franky's position in Wentworth had improved significantly. She carried the notebook everywhere she went, and used it to communicate with fellow inmates as well as with guards. Her sessions with Bridget were the only times during which she left it in her cell - she preferred to spell things to the psychologist, who, in return, had been teaching her some simple signs like ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to make talking that little bit easier. 

 

She was mopping the hallway floors when Lucy Gambaro’s crew walked past her. 

“Miss Westfall?” the corpulent woman asked at a soft tone while her boys waited at the corner. No reaction. Juice chuckled: “Just like the Freak had mentioned.” Franky's eyes widened at the mention of the Governor. What had the woman told the inmate who was notorious for sexually assaulting any woman she could get her hands on? She tiptoed towards the corner, and was just able to see how Bridget seemed to be hanging something on a notice board in the otherwise-abandoned hallway before Juice’s crew grabbed her roughly and shoved her into the probably deserted shower block. Fuck! Franky rushed towards the first guard she could find. She didn't give a shit that this would be lagging. Bridget wasn't a screw - she was the only one looking out for the women, and she was about to get assaulted. Two hallways down she encountered Linda Miles on her way to the break room. She tried motioning towards the showers, attempting to show the guard the panic she was feeling. 

“Jesus, go seize somewhere else, Twitch; I don't have time for this.” The blonde corrections officer swiped her card and entered a personnel-only corridor. The notebook was in her cell. Fuck!

 

Bridget had been hanging up notices announcing extra group therapy sessions when suddenly two pairs of hands came down roughly on her shoulders. Before she could realise what was happening, she was pulled through the nearest doorway, taking her into the inmates’ shower blocks with a panicked shriek. She cursed inwardly at having lost track of her surroundings. After nearly twenty years of working in prisons, she should have known better, but she felt relatively at ease in the halls of Wentworth. The women who were currently shoving her towards a shower stall were proof that it had been a veil. 

 

All air was forced out of her lungs as her chest came into contact with the off-white tiles of the wall.

“Don't do something you're going to regret,” she warned the inmates. She could have them all written up, but at the same time she was aware that she would only be able to take those actions after they'd decide they had had enough fun with her. She was strong and agile, but there were four of them and only one of her. It was an unfair fight.

“Oh it's gonna be worth it, Miss Westfall,” the gang leader murmured into her ear. “Now let's see whether downstairs is just as well-kept as upstairs, hm?” Bridget braced herself as well as she could while a sweaty palm was clamped over her mouth. Screaming was futile. She could feel someone’s hands aggressively palming her hips and buttocks through the fabric of her skirt while another ripped her blouse open and roughly pulling a bra cup down, exposing her breast. Let your brain go into survival mode, Bridget, she told herself. The adrenalin is going to take over and if you're lucky you're going to dissociate. Let instinct take over. A nail nicked her chest. Don't resist - it'll take the fun out of it for them. Go limp. Pain rushed through her body as she was struck on her thighs. Don't say a word. You're the minority here. She attempted to take a deep breath through the fingers blocking her mouth and nose.

  
The last thing she heard was someone yelling: "Let her go!" Then one of her assailants must have accidentally hit the shower. Water hit her hearing aids and the world went silent.


	4. 0 Decibel

Bridget's head hit the tiles when the hands holding her shoulders suddenly let go of her. Her head felt like it was splitting open. Please, let someone have come in to help her. She could make out Juice’s crew yelling. She turned around and crawled backwards into the corner of the stall, making herself as small as possible. Franky was standing in the middle of her assailants, holding a mop as a weapon. Shit, what was she doing? Suddenly all heads turned into the direction of the entrance, and before she knew it, Bea Smith was standing next to Franky, with Maxine, Boomer and Liz behind them. She attempted to read their lips and align that to the sounds she could make out, but to no avail: she was rubbish at lip-reading, and besides, even the best could only understand maybe one third of what was being said when they did. A fight broke out in front of her, but within no time the H1 girls had Juice’s crew against the floor. Bea motioned towards Bridget while saying something to Franky. The brunette nodded and knelt down next to the psychologist, along with Liz. The older inmate was asking her something, but Bridget could barely make out the words. Helpless, she motioned at her ears, and tried telling the woman: “I can't hear you.” Her own voice sounded muffled to her, but she seemed to have gotten the message across. Liz pointed at Bridget, then she ‘wrote’ out letters on the tiles of the wall to her left.  _ OKAY _ ? 

“I think so,” Bridget confirmed. She attempted to get up but nearly fell over again if it hadn't been for Franky catching her. That hit on the head must have been harder than she had thought. Nodding to Liz, Franky pointed towards the doorway and spelled: “Your office.” Bridget nodded. “Escort.” Hesitating for a second, she nodded again. Walking there by herself would be a ridiculously reckless plan right now. She touched her adductor pollicis between her thumb and her index finger, and the tips of her ring finger and her pinky finger in succession, finding comfort in the Auslan now that she could barely hear her own voice: “You.” Franky nodded and offered her an arm while the rest of the inmates kept a close eye on her assailants. 

 

Thankfully they were able to reach her office without anyone seeing them. Bridget didn’t want to think about what her colleagues - or possibly even worse, the inmates - would think and say at the sight of a drenched and injured forensic psychologist. When Franky finally closed the door behind them after what had felt like a double marathon in distance, the blonde let out a shaky breath of relief. Reaching up to her ears, she removed the now-useless devices. The water had caused them to short-circuit, and they were worthless now. Sighing, she grabbed their case from her bag and slipped them in. Suddenly she realised that her entire outfit had gotten wet. She had to change, before anyone saw her. Closing the blinds, Bridget grabbed her spare set of clothing from her bottom desk drawer, and turned her back to Franky. She chastised herself in the back of her mind for making herself vulnerable to yet another inmate, but this felt different. Ever since she had entered the small office, Franky had done nothing except giving her space and guarding the door. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Franky had cast her eyes downwards, giving her relative privacy to change. Quickly and efficiently, the psychologist removed the sodden clothing from her body, replacing it with a soft and clean dress. Once she was finished, she cleared her throat, drawing Franky's attention. She raised her right hand to her lips and moved it downward: “Thank you.” The brunette stared at her with a concerned look on her face as she spelled: “Blood.” She pointed at Bridget’s leg, where indeed a wet, red trail had trickled down her skin. Oh, that was just perfect, wasn't it? They must have nicked her with the shiv. God, she hoped she hadn't gotten infected with anything. Touching the back of her thigh caused a sharp pain to run through her entire leg while she felt torn flesh under her fingertips. Bridget winced at the stabbing feeling. 

A gentle hand on her shoulder caught her attention. No matter how careful the gesture, she panicked, and spun around in a defensive stance. Franky was standing behind her with the first aid kit that was normally on top of the cabinet at the far end of her small office. Putting it down on the desk, the brunette curved her fingers and moved her hand from her shoulder to her heart. “I'm sorry.” Bridget shook her head.

“You scared me. It's okay.” Her fingers formed the familiar letters quickly and fluidly, and Franky barely seemed able to follow her. Sighing softly, Bridget repeated the motions, but slower this time. Franky's brow furrowed in concentration. She was used to producing the letters, not deciphering them, and the speed at which the blonde was spelling was not helping. She was confused as to why the psychologist wasn't speaking. At the brunette's strange look, Bridget sighed, and grabbed a notepad and pen from her desk.

_ I can't hear my own voice. Not well, anyway. _

The words appeared quickly in precise cursive. Franky immediately nodded in understanding. She replied: “I'm sorry. I can sign, but I can't understand it well.”

_ That's okay. I appreciate you trying. _

“May I please see that?” The inmate motioned at her leg. After a moment of hesitation, Bridget flicked her fist. Yes. She leant on her desk, trembling slightly as Franky carefully examined the wound. Stepping back into her field of vision, the younger woman told her: “It's a clean cut, not very deep.” The brunette cleaned the angry skin with featherlight touches before using steri-strips to close it. 

_ Thank you.  _

Smiling gently, Franky signed: “You're welcome.” Suddenly finding the need to voice her next question, Bridget had to rely on years of speech therapy and muscle memory as she placed two fingers on her own throat to feel the vibrations of the vowels she was producing. 

“You were the one yelling before, weren't you?”

  
Before she even had had time to register the girl's reaction, Franky had fled out of her office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the continued support. This is a very personal story for me when it comes to the hearing loss, and it's wonderful to learn that you're all liking it.


	5. 90 Decibel

As Bridget was moving towards the door to go after Franky, she suddenly slammed into a muscular build. Looking up, she was staring into the concerned face of Will Jackson. He was saying something to her, but all she could make out were some long vowels. Shaking her head, she handed him a new sheet of paper and a pen. She sighed as she explained: “My hearing aids got destroyed, so I can't make out what you're saying.” The tall guard looked surprised, but nodded and wrote a small paragraph on the paper.

_ Bea Smith told me what happened. And Linda the Wentworth gossip machine told everyone else. Juice and her crew are all in isolation. They'll be dealt with. Are you okay? Governor Ferguson suggests that you take a few days off, a long weekend. Is there anyone I can call for you? _

Nodding silently, Bridget accepted her defeat. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed time to recuperate and reflect. At his last question, she mentioned: “I'll text my brother. I'll stay in my office until he gets here.”

_ Okay. Let me know if I can help, okay?  _

Will dropped a radio on her desk.

_ Press the distress button if you need me. I'll be right over. _

Smiling, Bridget responded: “Thank you.” 

 

A few hours later, Linda Miles observed a tall, muscular man enter through the visitor’s entrance He smiled at her as he handed her a note and his passport. Sighing, she glanced at the text.

_ My name is Oliver Timothy Westfall. I am deaf. I am looking for my sister, Bridget Emma Westfall, forensic psychologist. Could you please let her know that I am here? _

With another annoyed sigh, Linda nodded at Oliver, and walked into the office behind the desk. Finding Will there, she grumbled: “Westfall’s brother is here. Can’t even talk. That woman sure comes from a ridiculous bunch of handicapped idiots.” Suddenly, Will slammed his hands down on the table. 

“After all that's happened today,  **this** is what you have to say about her? And they're not handicapped. Just different. I'll go get her. You stay here and keep your trap shut.” His eyes shot daggers at her. Shaking his head, he walked out of the room, towards the waiting man. Will waved at him before grabbing a notepad and writing:  _ Hi, I'm Will Jackson. I'll get you signed in and then we can go get your sister from her office.  _

 

Bridget was seated in one of the armchairs in her safe space, her legs folded underneath her. She was trying to postpone the reflection onto what had happened just now until she got home, and failing miserably. She should have paid more attention to her surroundings. She shouldn't have trusted everyone as much as she did. And yet, if she couldn't trust the inmates just as much as the staff, how would she ever be able to do her job? Her sessions worked on a basis of trust. A sudden change in the lighting in the room caught her attention. Looking up towards the door, she was met with eyes as blue as her own. 

“Hey little Bridget,” Oliver signed in the doorway, Will Jackson standing behind him. 

“Oliver!” She jumped up from her seat to fly into his arms. “I'm so glad you're here.” Her brother pulled his arms around her tightly and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked. The forensic psychologist nodded. Stepping out of the embrace, she grabbed her belongings before nodding towards both of the men waiting for her in the corridor. Speaking slowly and motioning towards the exit, Will told them both: “I'll walk with you.” 

 

In the meantime, a large group of women had gathered in H block, all talking at the same time. Suddenly the loud voice of Bea Smith resounded through the room: “Everybody shut up!” All faces turned towards the redhead.

 

Bea continued: “What Juice did today, was not okay. She and her crew attacked Miss Westfall, who by any means is not a screw. She's one of the few people here who have our backs. And I think Juice needs to be dealt with whenever they let her leave the slot.” A loud clamour of applause and cheering followed her statement. 

“But Jacs has already said she's not going to do anything. The slot is more than enough, she says,” Liz remarked. A few of the women, including Franky, shot up from where they were seated in protest. Someone yelled: “Westfall’s a good one!” Franky scribbled something in her notebook and held it up to Doreen to read it out loud for her: “Juice needs to be brought to a halt.” A murmur of agreement spread throughout the block.

“But how, if Holt won't do anything?” Boomer asked. Bea smiled. 

“I think it's time for a coup.”

 

As Will led Bridget and Oliver out of the building, the trio encountered Governor Ferguson by the exit. The Governor smiled at them, and moved out of the way so they could leave. 

“Thank you,” Bridget replied, relying on muscle memory once again. Ferguson only nodded at her. While walking away from the building towards the car park, she felt the need to turn around and look back at Wentworth. From behind the closed glass doors, she could see Joan watching her. The woman suddenly raised her hands in front of her body, and in precise and fluent Auslan signed: “See you next week. I'll keep a close eye on Francesca.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the continued support! I really appreciate all of you so much.


	6. 10 Decibel

Bridget was silent and still on their way to the Westfall farmstead. After picking up some clothing and some of her things at her home, Oliver had taken her to her GP’s office, to get some antibiotics for the cut on her leg. Now they were finally getting out of the urbanised area, and Bridget was starting to feel the physical effects of all that had happened today. Her head felt like it was splitting open. Her thigh felt like it was on fire, despite the bandaging and painkillers she had gotten. Her entire being felt bruised, including her soul. 

 

The sun was starting to set when they finally reached the gates. Oliver pulled up in front of the main building, and helped his little sister out of his truck. Slinging her bag over his shoulder, he followed her into her childhood home. Inside, Julia and Frank were sitting in the living room, cross-stitching and doing a crossword puzzle, respectively. Flickering the lights to let them know they had arrived, Oliver guided the youngest Westfall to sit next to her father on the couch. Frank took his youngest’s hand in his own. Her body remained stiff, her back straight and her shoulders tense. 

 

Julia got up from her seat with a slight grunt, and walked over to her daughter and husband.

“You're safe,” she signed, raising her left hand to push Bridget’s hair behind her ear. With a soft pull, she removed both of the spare hearing aids they had picked up at the psychologist’s home. “Mum and Dad are here.”

Bridget broke down crying.

 

On Monday, Will Jackson found himself standing in Governor Ferguson’s office, unsure of how to announce what he wanted to tell her.

“I don't have all day, Mister Jackson; spit it out,” the stern woman commanded, flipping through papers that had arrived over the weekend. 

“I got a message from Oliver Westfall. Bridget isn't doing well at all, and he has asked whether she could get the week off.” Will ran a hand through his hair. Without looking up from her desk, Ferguson replied: “Very well.” As Will walked away, he could have sworn he saw the Governor smile.

 

Bea Smith had gathered all of the women with power - except for Jacqueline Holt and Lucy Gambaro - and took the lead: “If the rumours are true, Juice is getting out of the slot by next week. Holt needs to abdicate by then - either voluntarily or with force. I'm afraid it'll be the latter.” 

“What do you suggest? And why should we help you?” Tina Mercado asked, a soft murmur going through the room. 

“Because I think it's time for a little democracy, instead of the Holt-led dictatorship.” The red-headed inmate leant forward, her palms resting on the table in front of her. “As for how, it'll require some planning. We need to separate Holt from her crew.”

 

By Thursday morning, Franky had asked the guards whether Bridget was back seventeen times - not that she was counting. She was worried about the kind blonde psychologist. Bridget was the only one who could communicate with her, really communicate with her. She was about to walk up to Miss Miles with the same piece of paper she had been carrying around since Monday. It bore only one sentence: “Is Miss Westfall back yet?” However, before the brunette could show her, Linda sighed, and muttered: “She's not coming back, Twitch. She's gone. Give it up.”

 

Franky felt like she had been kicked. Huffing loudly, she ran off towards the communal areas. 

“Doyle! Pick that up!” Linda yelled after the agitated brunette. Within seconds, Will was standing in front of her, grabbing the forgotten scrap of paper off of the floor. He folded it and put it in his breast pocket.

“Give the girl a break, will ya, Linda? She's lost the only person who can really communicate with her.” He walked away from her, when suddenly a loud ruckus coming from the library caught his attention. Running into the room, he saw Franky standing next to the bookcases, throwing books into the air in frustration. 

“Doyle! Doyle!” he called out while slowly approaching the distraught brunette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vera standing near the computers, her radio already raised to his lips. He shook his head at her. The deputy governor raised an eyebrow, but let the device drop lower anyway. 

“Franky, love, this isn't getting you anywhere. Please try to breathe; it's okay,” the gentle voice of Liz soothed from somewhere behind him. “What would Miss Westfall think if she saw you like this?” she added. That seemed to do the trick. Sobbing silently, Franky dropped the book she was holding above her head and sunk to the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. With a nod of her head, Bea told Boomer and Skye to help put the discarded books back where they came back. 

“Let's get you back to H1, huh?” Liz asked, wrapping an arm around Franky’s trembling shoulders. Will watched as she ushered Franky out of the library. He had to do something. 

 

That Friday afternoon, Will found himself driving on a road he'd never been on before, staring at his navigational system. It told him to turn right, but all he saw was sand and grass and trees. Very well. As he continued along the dry stone path, suddenly a gate came into view, in between some trees. He smirked. The handwriting on the sign was undoubtedly Bridget Westfall’s: ‘Westfall Family Farm’ in neat cursive. Underneath, in a more ragged scrawl, it read: ‘Private property’. Oliver Westfall was waiting for him just a few metres beyond the gate, and he waved at the prison guard, motioning for him to follow him. The farmer led him onto the grounds and drove in front of him, guiding him along the main path until they reached the main building. Exiting his car, Will looked around. So this was where Bridget Westfall grew up, huh? Oliver produced a tablet computer, and typed out: “Welcome to the farm!” Grinning, Will took out his phone and replied: “Thanks!”

“We'll go find Bridget,” Oliver told him. “But first: Want a beer?”

 

After introducing himself to Frank and Julia Westfall who were both in the large kitchen, Will followed Oliver out back to one of the family’s buggies. Together, they drove the short distance to the stables, while Oliver pointed out the various crops and livestock the family owned.

“She'll be up there,” he explained, pointing at the wooden ladder that led up to the hay-loft. Both men climbed up swiftly. There, they finally found Bridget. Will’s heart sunk at the sight of her. She was pale, and staring into the distance. Her thin form was dressed in a grey jumper and dark blue jeans. She looked miserable. Her hearing aids were in her lap. When Oliver and Will came into her line of sight, she confusedly signed and spoke: “What are you doing here?” She grabbed the small devices and quickly put them in place, then nodded at Will.

“I was worried about you,” he explained. Then, raising his hands tentatively, he crudely signed: “We miss you. We need you.” Lord, he hoped he had remembered correctly what the girl at the information centre had taught him. Bridget shook her head.

“I'm a safety risk. You've seen it.” She looked at her lap, picking at a nail in a floorboard. 

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore. The women were furious with Juice.” A slight shiver visibly went through the psychologist’s spine at the mention of Lucy Gambaro’s nickname. “Bea Smith took over as top dog today.” Bridget's eyes shot up to meet his.

“You're kidding.” 

“Nope,” Will countered. “Holt didn't punish Gambaro for what she did to you, and it cost her her throne. We need you back. We really do.” Bridget shook her head again, and responded: “I don’t believe you.” Sighing, the prison guard retrieved a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to the blonde.

"If I can't convince you, maybe she can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going back to university to finally get a degree starting next week, so updates could be coming in a little slower. I apologise in advance!


	7. 20 Decibel

_ Dear Miss Westfall, _

 

_ Mister Jackson has given me the opportunity to write a letter to you. I’m going to have to trust his word that he’ll actually get it to you, but it’s worth a shot. _

_ I’m just going to be honest with you: I’m worried about ya. Juice is a gross excuse for a human being, and what she does to people - women - is awful. What she tried to do to you is awful. What she did to me was awful. No one should ever have to go through that. _

_ Because of that, all of us - that’s me speaking for all of the inmates - wouldn’t blame ya at all if you didn’t come back, but we would all miss you. You’re one of the few sane staff members and the only one whom I can talk to, really talk to. You were the only one observant enough to realise that I was trying to spell; that it wasn’t random twitching. And for that, I want to thank you. Even if you don’t come back, know that you’ve made me feel like a human being. _

 

_ Francesca ‘Franky’ Doyle _

 

_ PS: Bea is top dog now. Thought you’d might like to know that. _

 

Bridget smiled while reading the letter. Her heart ached. She wanted to return to Wentworth - she really was convinced that working in corrections was her calling - but she felt like a liability. Suddenly, she spotted another small note attached to the back of Franky’s letter. Examining it closer, she realised it was in a different handwriting, one she didn’t recognise. She pulled it off of the letter and read the cursive.

 

_ Miss Westfall, through democratic vote we have now decided you’ll always get an escort from someone out of a small group of trusted people: Sue Jenkins, Maxine Conway, Francesca Doyle, or myself. I’m the new top dog, and things are changing. I sincerely hope you’re feeling better. Bea Smith. _

 

So Will really hadn’t been kidding; Bea really had managed to oust Jacs Holt. Bridget could hardly believe it. As far as she knew, the Holts ran every single prison in the state, be it directly or through henchmen and -women. This was big. This was huge, even. Looking up, she was staring into his expectant eyes.

“Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“So you’ll come back?” Bridget sighed. She did miss Wentworth. She missed the women. She missed… But she still felt like a liability; like a weight, dragging everyone else down. “Listen, we now all know. There’s no way anyone will ever get away with anything like that. Trust me when I say that things have changed now that Bea is top dog.”

“I’ll consider it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only a small addition, but I wanted to upload it now because I really do love this story. The next chapter will be longer, I promise!


	8. 30 Decibel

Franky was cleaning the floors of one of the northern hallways when a gentle voice caught her attention. She knew that voice, even if it had been weeks since she heard it. She dropped the mop immediately and rushed over to the source. A loud bang resonated throughout the corridor as it hit the linoleum. As she rounded the corner, she barged into a slim body. Her hands shot out to steady both herself and her victim. Once she realised who she’d run into, a broad smile appeared on her face. 

“That’s quite the welcome back, Franky,” Bridget joked, a gleam visible in the blue of her irises. Franky grinned. She couldn’t believe the forensic psychologist was actually back! After a few seconds, the blonde coughed nervously, glancing downwards. The inmate’s hands were still resting on her waist, from when they’d shot out and prevented her from falling over. Franky immediately retracted them, her arms dropping to her her sides. 

“I’ve got a free slot this afternoon,” the blonde commented innocently. The taller woman raised her hands and spelt: “Want me to fill it?” Bridget blushed, laughing nervously. 

“Do I want to know what you just spelt?” The question came from Will Jackson, who had been watching the encounter from a distance. Franky pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket and wrote down: “I just said I’d like to speak with Miss Westfall.” Will nodded incredulously. 

“Right.”

 

Bridget had been trying to ignore the slight butterflies in her lower abdomen all day. The fluttering feeling had suddenly appeared this morning, and as much as she wanted to deny it, in her heart she knew that a certain lanky brunette was the one and only cause of them. Now that her final appointment of the day was approaching, she could feel them getting stronger. Her eyes kept focusing on the closed door of her office, awaiting the moment it would swing open. She was being ridiculous; she was aware of that. She couldn’t help herself, though. Maybe focusing on the reports she had to type up would help distract her brain. Although she wondered, was it her brain or her heart that needed distracting?

 

Before she knew it, a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Will Jackson and Franky. The brunette entered the small office with much more swagger and confidence than she had when Bridget had first met her. 

“Doyle for you, Miss Westfall,” Will remarked as he closed the door behind him with a smile. 

“Have a seat, Franky.” Bridget motioned at the green chairs. The inmate let herself drop into the one closest to the wall, and spelt: “It’s good to see you back.” Bridget smiled.

“It’s good to be back. However, Franky, this appointment is for you. How have you been?” The psychologist crossed her legs and observed the younger woman for a moment. Her hair, which had once surrounded her face like the curtains of a West End stage, was now pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin seemed to have obtained a slight tan - or was that Bridget’s mind playing tricks on her? She hoped it meant that Franky spent more time outside. Her old files showed that she never went out into the yard unless prompted, and even then almost always returned back inside at the first opportunity. She looked...better. Franky shrugged and replied: “Oh, you know, the usual. Some bashings, some gangings, a Governor who’s fucked in the head.” A smirk followed the remark.

“As entertaining as that may be to you, it’s not an answer to my question.” Bridget felt a sense of frustration enter her body. She had been making such great progress with Franky, and now it felt like her walls were up again. Was it her fault? Did her absence make Franky feel abandoned? She knew from experience that whoever wrote ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ was an idiot. Absence made the heart suffer. It tore it into tiny pieces. Absence was an arsehole. She needed to pierce through her defences.

“That day when I was attacked…” Should she even bring it up? Franky looked at her with large eyes. She had already enunciated the first few words; there was no going back now. Speaking slowly and carefully choosing how, she continued: “...you spoke, didn’t you?” 

“No.” The hand movement from Franky was fast and harsh. She had struck a sensitive subject. In fact, Bridget hadn’t been this convinced the brunette had indeed been the one to yell out when her assailants suddenly let her drop. It had been a young female voice, and one she hadn’t recognised. It just had to be Franky.

“I don’t believe you.” The statement was short but powerful. I reject your lie. 

“Don’t.” Tears were starting to form in the corners of Franky’s eyes, and her non-dominant left hand was shaking as she formed the four letters. “Don’t do this.”

“Why don’t you speak, Franky? It’s not physical, is it?” Bridget knew she was pushing the limit here. This could either lead to a breakthrough, or to a total blockage. Franky was like a cat in peril, unsure whether to fight or flee, and hence she was hissing at her opponent. Could she trust her? The blonde repressed the urge to lean forward, and let her hands rest on her thighs, palms turned towards the ceiling. She felt a sense of déjà vécu: hadn’t they been in this exact position before? With Franky putting up all of the defences she possibly could, and Bridget trying desperately to show she wasn’t a threat; that she wouldn’t hurt her?

“I can’t.”

The words were slow, and Bridget had to do her best to decipher them. One thing was clear, though: 

Franky had just spoken.


	9. 20 Decibel Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: description of childhood abuse.

Bridget was too surprised to be able to utter even a single word. Franky’s voice sounded hoarse, as if she had a bad cold or had been yelling for a long time. She realised that that wasn’t strange - she was positive that the brunette barely ever spoke. Slowly, she recollected herself, and softly whispered: “Why?” Before she really noticed what she was doing, Bridget had instinctively reached over and gently touched the back of Franky’s shaking hands. The inmate’s eyes were glazed over with tears threatening to fall down her cheeks, and she shook her head. As the blonde shifted in her seat, she flinched. The psychologist’s brain was working a mile a minute trying to connect the dots.

_ My name is Franky. _

_ Let her go! _

_ Blood. _

_ The only one I can really talk to. _

_ You’ve made me feel like a human being. _

_ I can’t. _

Suddenly, it clicked. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered. “I love hearing you speak. You have a lovely voice.” She tenderly rubbed the younger woman’s hands. A nagging mini-Bridget in the back of her mind was telling her that she shouldn’t be doing this; that she was overstepping boundaries she had always promised herself she really would never cross. Another miniature blonde told the other one to hush; that she was in complete control of the situation. But was she, really?

Franky shook her head again, and spelt against the older woman’s hands: “It only makes things worse.” Now Bridget was the one to shake her head.

“You saved me by using your voice.” Franky’s eyes were fixated on the wall. It seemed the older woman’s words weren’t reaching her soul anymore at all. 

 

_ The door slammed shut, and a loud female voice yelled: “Where are you, you little slut?” The words were slurred as a woman stumbled into the tiny apartment. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, and cigarette butts were spilling out of a grimy ashtray that hadn’t been emptied in weeks. The entire home reeked of alcohol and cheap lavender-scented aerosols. “You can’t hide from me, you awful excuse of a child. Mummy always finds you.” Shambling, she continued towards the only source of light: the glow of a nightlight in a small bedroom. A young girl was hidden underneath a thin blanket, her knees pulled up to her chest and a tattered plush bunny clenched in her small hands. The woman walked up to the bed and snatched the bedspread away from the child. _

_ “You talked to the school counsellor, you little lying bitch! You're just like your deadbeat good-for-nothing father!” Her hand swung out towards the small brunette. A sharp smack was the only thing audible, followed by soft sobs. The girl's hand shot towards her cheek, attempting to protect the burning skin. _

_ “Shut up!” the woman screamed at the girl. “You’re never, ever going to speak to them again, you hear me? Give me that!”  _

_ “No!” It was the first word the child had uttered since her mother had walked in, but it didn’t save her. The woman pulled the stuffed animal out of her arms and tore it apart in front of her face, letting the stuffing and fabric float towards the floor. _

_ “That’s what you get for talking! Next time, it’ll be your arms and legs! Your voice isn’t good for anything, Francesca Doyle!” With that, the mother stomped out of the room, leaving her silently crying daughter behind. _

 

“You saved me by speaking up,” Bridget repeated once more, squeezing her hands gently. Suddenly, Franky got up and angrily spelt: “You have no idea. You don’t know what she did. What will happen.” The inmate had backed up against the wall, her hands in front of her chest. The psychologist didn’t move a muscle as she replied: “You’re right. I don’t. So explain it to me.” Grunting in frustration, the brunette punched the nearest object - a stack of paper sitting on the edge of a cabinet - after which she attempted to stare down Bridget.

“I would appreciate it if you picked that back up,” the blonde commented calmly, remaining seated where she was. Dumbfounded for just a second, Franky shook her head and bent to grab the now-crumpled documents. She dropped them onto the surface of the cabinet with a dull thud. 

“I want to go back to my unit.” She signed the words quickly and without emotion.

“Then tell me so,” Bridget replied. She was convinced the brunette was physically capable of it. Maybe, if she pushed her just right, she could make her utter another word. The younger woman shook her head once more, silent. Before Bridget could ask her again, a knock at the door signalled the arrival of Mister Jackson. Saved by the bell, the psychologist mused.

 

That night at home, Bridget found herself staring at Franky’s file. So much went on behind those green eyes which were staring back at her from the mugshot. She flipped the page, taking her to the young woman’s conviction. Grievous bodily harm with intent. Theft. Something didn’t feel right. The entire modus operandi didn’t feel like the brunette at all - sneaking into the home of an elderly couple and beating them up wasn’t something she could see her doing. The mini-Bridget in her mind returned to tell her that her work and her life had shown her that people were capable of the most awful things, that she should know that by now. However, something just didn’t sit right. The psychologist took a sip of her wine and made a decision. Picking up her phone, she dialled the number of an old friend.

“Erica? I’m sorry for calling you at this hour, but I could use some legal help.” A throaty mezzo voice at the other end of the line chuckled, and Erica Davidson replied: “I’ll be over in twenty, but you’d better have a glass of wine ready and waiting, Westfall.” Bridget chuckled.

“Definitely.”


	10. Sonic Boom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sonic boom is the sound associated with the shock waves created whenever an object traveling through the air travels faster than the speed of sound. Sonic booms generate significant amounts of sound energy, sounding similar to an explosion or a thunderclap to the human ear. The crack of a supersonic bullet passing overhead or the crack of a bullwhip are examples of a sonic boom in miniature.

Bridget was waiting in the doorway, watching as Erica parked her Mercedes across the street. The honey blonde was still dressed for work, it seemed. Clad in a pantsuit that looked like it had cost more than Bridget’s average monthly salary and heels with a signature red sole, the barrister walked up to the single-storey home, a slim bag flung over her shoulder. 

“Working late, Davidson?” the psychologist greeted her, moving to kiss her cheek. Erica chuckled, and let her hand glide along the shawl lapel of Bridget’s cobalt blue blazer, responding: “Look who’s talking! It’s good to see you. Now,” she continued, nodding towards the home, “you promised wine.” Both women entered the house, the older woman guiding the younger towards the living room. Once they were both seated on the sofa, Erica asked: “Alright, so you needed my assistance?” Bridget nodded as she set her glass on the surface of the coffee table and grabbed Franky’s file from the shelf underneath. 

“This is the file of one of the inmates at Wentworth,” she explained, handing it to the barrister. “I think she’s been…” Erica held up a hand to silence her.

“Let me read it first, then I’ll tell you what I think, okay?” She retrieved reading glasses from her bag and perched them onto the bridge of her nose, taking the file from Bridget. The psychologist tried not to stare too much as the younger woman went through the folder, her eyes scanning every page. When she had reached the final notes, the honey blonde let the glasses fall into her lap, and looked at Bridget.

“Tell me about her.”

 

At Wentworth, Franky was in her cell, the units having been locked up for the night. She was doodling in her notebook, using the light streaming in from outside to illuminate the paper. Her portrait drawing skills weren’t even remotely as good as Bea’s, but the redhead had been giving her some pointers on how to improve the likeliness. Suddenly her door flung open, and Linda Miles was standing in the doorway. 

“You’re coming with me, Twitch.” Franky raised an eyebrow but got up, grabbing her notebook. Miles snatched it out of her hands and threw it back onto the bed. “You won’t be needing that. Come on.”

 

“And she’s just so smart, Er, like actually intelligent,” Bridget finished, grabbing her wine again. The barrister had been listening silently as the psychologist had described the inmate to her, showering Francesca Doyle with compliments in the process. A small smile appeared on Erica’s face once she was done talking, and she remarked: “You’ve fallen for her.” Bridget nearly spat out her mouthful of Merlot. 

“I just care for her wellbeing as my client. That’s all,” she protested. The honey blonde chuckled.

“Yeah right. I know that look, and I haven’t seen it in your face in years. However,” she continued, “you’re right for letting me see this. Something is definitely off.”

 

Will waved at Vera as he walked towards the exit. His evening shift was finally over, and to say he was absolutely ready to go home was the largest understatement of the century. Moving down the hallway, he suddenly spotted Linda Miles escorting Franky away from H1. It was the middle of the bloody night, what was she doing? He hesitated for a split second before deciding not to head left towards the door leading outside, taking a right turn instead, into the video room. Linda and Franky moved across the screens. Where were they going? He followed their digital counterparts as they walked towards what seemed to be the dining hall. Suddenly, a shadow on a different screen caught his eye. Someone was waiting for them in the back of the kitchen. Acting purely on instinct, he selected the nearby cameras and pressed ‘record’.

 

In the next twenty minutes, Erica had turned Bridget’s dining room table into a makeshift legal office, with the psychologist acting as her assistant. Papers were strewn across the lime green surface, and the barrister had made copies of the pages covering the brunette’s charges and conviction. Yellow and green highlighter ink marked the important lines and passages. 

“Now,” the honey blonde announced as she pulled something from her bag, “it’s time for my ‘this is bullshit’-colour.” A neon pink marker appeared onto the table. “And I’m starting with this.” She highlighted a paragraph title. Bridget stepped behind her to be able to see. Marked with Erica’s nonsense-pink, were the words: ‘Charges’. 

 

The dining hall was dead-silent as Miss Miles ushered Franky inside. She remained in the hallway and shut the doors with a slam that appeared to carry throughout the entire facility. Before she could really register what was happening, someone grabbed her and pulled something over her head, obstructing her view. They shoved her and pulled on her arms, causing her to stumble across the linoleum floor. Then, something searingly hot touched the skin of her hands, and she cried out in pain before a knock on the back of her head knocked her out. The world went black.

 

“This is the most awful defence statement I've ever read, Bridget,” Erica announced. “My first-year interns could do better. Hell, a high schooler could have done a better job than this!” She looked the psychologist in the eye. “I'll take her case. Pro bono. This needs to be reopened.” Bridget smiled.

“Thank you.”

 

Will Jackson removed his USB drive from the computer system and quickly sent Vera a message.

_ Medical assistance required in the dining hall. Don't ask how I know. You may need Bridget too. _

Then, he left the premises. He needed to get that file somewhere safe until he figured out what to do and who to trust. 


	11. Mach 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In fluid dynamics, the Mach number (M or Ma) is a dimensionless quantity representing the ratio of flow velocity past a boundary to the local speed of sound. By definition, at Mach 1, the local flow velocity u is equal to the speed of sound. At Mach 0.65, u is 65% of the speed of sound (subsonic), and, at Mach 1.35, u is 35% faster than the speed of sound (supersonic).

When Bridget had gotten the call from Vera, telling her that they needed her on-site assistance immediately because Franky had gotten hurt in what seemed to be an attack, she had dropped everything in a relative panic. Erica had grabbed her own car keys before she could reach them, adding: “You’re not driving. I will.”

So, now, here she was, rushing into the building through the night entrance, followed by her best friend. Vera raised an eyebrow when she saw the second woman enter, but Bridget offered her a quick explanation: “I wasn’t at home when you called.” The Deputy seemed to accept her white lie as the truth. The honey blonde added: “If you have a chair somewhere, I’ll go sit there and won’t move unless you tell me to.” That reassured the brunette.

“I’ll take her to the break room, then,” Vera decided. “Doyle is in the medbay; Rose is tending to her.” Nodding, Bridget rushed towards the infirmary, her features illuminated by the dimmed glow of the nocturnal lighting. She knocked on the door and waited for nurse Atkins to let her in. The calm-natured woman appeared quickly, guiding Bridget towards a bed hidden behind a curtain. The forensic psychologist couldn’t stop a soft gasp from escaping her mouth when she saw the curled-up shell of a person on the mattress. Franky’s hands and wrists were stained black and grey, and the skin looked tight.

“What...what is that?” she asked? The inmate’s head shot up at the sound of the alto voice filling the small room. “Why is it that colour?”

“Silver nitrate burns,” Rose explained, sighing softly. “As to how it got onto her hands, I wouldn’t know, and it’s not like she can explain, unfortunately.”

“Can you move your fingers?”

 

At the Westfall family farm, Oliver was just headed to bed for the night when headlights appeared in the distance. Pulling on his coat and grabbing his phone, he exited the main building and walked towards the gates. As he got closer, he suddenly realised the unexpected visitor was Will Jackson. Grinning, he typed: _If you’re looking for Bridget, I think you’re in the wrong area mate._ The prison guard shook his head, and texted him back: _That’s not why I’m here. I need your help._ Oliver nearly burst into laughter. His help?

 

Franky grimaced as she attempted to form the alphabet with her fingers. After a couple of seconds, she sighed and shook her head, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s okay,” Bridget soothed. “We’ll figure out a way for you to communicate.” Her mind was racing. If speaking wasn’t an option, nor were signing or writing, what was left? She needed to speak with Vera. They needed to find out who was responsible.

 

In the midst of the night, Oliver and Will sat at the dining room table, a single lamp shedding light onto the surface. A tablet computer was laid in between them, keeping track of their conversation.

“You needed my help?” the Westfall sibling asked, offering the prison officer some tea.

“Yeah,” Will responded, taking a USB drive out of his pocket. “I need a safe place for this.”

“Why in the world did you come here? Couldn’t you have stashed it somewhere in the city?” Oliver felt surprised that he would drive all the way out to the farm in the middle of the night. After all, he had been there only once, and that was just to get his sister to return to Wentworth. Will shook his head.

“It should be somewhere even private investigators wouldn’t think of.” The farmer nodded.

“I know just the place.”

 

Erica smiled as Vera offered her a cup of coffee.

“Thank you. I apologise for following Bridget inside.” The deputy nervously responded: “Oh, don’t worry. It’s fine.” Suddenly, the psychologist in question entered the break room herself.

“What in the world happened? How did someone get their hands on silver nitrate?” If Erica hadn’t known any better, she would have thought Bridget was upset. The brunette shook her head and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and wrote something down. She folded it up, and responded: “I wouldn’t know. I’m sure the Governor will figure it out. It’s not your job to worry about that anyway.” Clearing her throat, she added: “I have to get back to my rounds. You’ll see yourself and your friend out?” As she walked past Bridget, she pressed the folded paper into her hand and whispered: “Don’t read until you’re outside.” The psychologist and the barrister were both left speechless as they watched her exit the room.

“I guess we’d better leave, huh?” Erica suggested. Bridget nodded silently. She couldn’t do anything for Franky right now anyway.

 

“You’re sure it’s safe there?” Will asked. Oliver nodded.

“No-one but Bridget and I are ever there.” Feeling slightly more reassured, the guard said farewell, and drove off back towards the city limits of Melbourne.

 

As Bridget and Erica approached the honey blonde’s car, she commented: “Bridge, something’s off over there.” The psychologist nodded. Once they were in the vehicle, she retrieved the note Vera had entrusted her with. Opening it up, she read out loud: “We need to talk. Meet me at Will’s at 19:30.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter states that something hot touched the skin of Franky’s hands. This was a mistake in my writing - but will remain in the chapter. For medical and chemical accuracy: Silver nitrate does not feel hot when it touches the skin. (How do I know? I use it every day.) It does, however, cause chemical burns.


	12. Critical Velocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critical velocity is the speed that a falling object reaches when gravity and air resistance equalize on the object. In transonic flight, it is formally defined as the range of speeds between the critical Mach number, when some parts of the airflow over an air vehicle or airfoil are supersonic, and a higher speed, typically near Mach 1.2, when most of the airflow is supersonic.

The hours seemed to take centuries as Bridget waited for the small hand of the clock to touch the seven. It was Saturday, so she had the day off, and no matter how badly she wanted to see Franky and make sure she was okay, she had no place at Wentworth on the weekends unless there was some sort of crisis going on. Unfortunately, an attack on an inmate didn't classify as one, even something like this.

Erica had stayed the night; it had been much too late for her to drive home once they had returned from the prison. The barrister and the psychologist had shared one last glass of wine together before going to sleep, during which the honey blonde had nearly cross-examined Bridget about her feelings for a certain brunette inmate. 

_ “You obviously care about her,” Erica had commented as she sipped her wine - a 2012 pinot Gris, one of her personal favourites - and gave the psychologist a meaningful look. _

_ “I care about all of the women,” Bridget had countered with a slight scoff.  _

_ “Would you do all of this for just any of the women?”  _

Erica’s words kept resounding in the psychologist’s mind like a never-ending echo. She had refused to answer the woman last night, opting to head to bed instead. Now that Erica had left to go spend time with her fiancé, the question in her thoughts was becoming increasingly harder to ignore. She knew the answer. She just wasn't ready to admit it to herself or anyone else yet.

 

Will had made his way back to his home in Melbourne in the early morning hours, and he had slept until noon. Vera had asked to come visit him with Bridget; said she had something important she wanted to talk to them about. So, now, he was vacuuming his living room in anticipation of two female guests. It sounded more exciting than it was, he mused.

By 7:15, Vera arrived - characteristically early. If he was being completely honest, he had expected her to come running through his door at seven, so the fact that she had lasted an extra fifteen minutes felt almost like it deserved an award. Twelve nerve-wracking minutes later, an anxious blonde arrived.

“Come on in,” Will told Bridget as he greeted her with a kiss on her cheek. Vera was waiting for them at his dining room table, and she looked like she was about to explode if she didn’t get whatever she wanted to say off her chest soon. 

“What in the world is going on, Vera?” Bridget asked, taking a seat across from her. Will sat down next to the psychologist after handing the women a glass of water each. The deputy governor sighed deeply before announcing: “I fear Governor Ferguson may be involved in acts that cannot endure the light of day.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Will replied. “I don’t fear it; I’m bloody sure of it.”

“But it can’t be proven, can it?” Bridget added.

 

The hallways of Wentworth prison had become abandoned, save for the occasional guard doing their rounds, as the night approached. Franky was still in medical, her burnt skin deemed too prone to infections. She found herself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Nurse Rose had offered her some painkillers, but she had refused. Pain wasn’t what was keeping her awake. It was worry. This idiotic attack had left her unable to communicate by anything other than nodding and shaking her head. It was like she was back where she was before Bridget had appeared into her life like a golden-haired sign-language-speaking angel. Life, however, had taught Franky that people who seemed to be angels were often only made out of gold-plated rubbish. And now that she felt like she needed the psychologist the most, she was absent. Of course, she was. 

She could have sworn she saw a dark figure standing in the corridor, watching her, but when she blinked, it was gone. It must be the drugs already in her system from before, getting to her.

 

“So,” Will announced, “it seems we have a plan. Bridget, you’ll get your brother and Erica Davidson involved. I’ll try to get the evidence we need. And Vera...you play the part of the oblivious assistant...for now.” Both of the women nodded. It was time to set their plan into action. It was time, to unmask a villain. It was time for change.


	13. Blackswift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title refers to an unmanned aircraft under the DARPA Falcon banner; I didn’t misspell the common name of Cypseloides niger.

The group of allies in the war against the evil in Wentworth was a strange one, Bridget mused as she drove up to the farm. The Westfall’s study, which hadn’t really been used much ever since Bridget had moved out, had been temporarily transformed into their headquarters. Frank Westfall wasn’t exactly pleased when she had first suggested it, but the powers of the blue eyes of two Westfall women combined had won him over. Bridget spotted a red Mazda parked under a tree, which meant that Vera was already present. The deputy governor and her brother made a surprisingly good team, despite their communication difficulties. Oliver was gentle, and Vera was patient. Then of course, there was Will Jackson. He was the one with the strongest sense of justice out of all of them. Erica Davidson completed the group. The barrister was tough and strict, but that was exactly what the team needed. And, well, then Bridget was also in on the plan, of course. She had been selected to keep track of everything that was going on. She wasn’t sure whether she was excelling in that role, but so far, it had been going successfully.

 

When Bridget entered the farmhouse, she was greeted by her father. He smiled gently as he signed: “Hello sweetheart.” The blonde kissed his cheek.

“Hey Dad. Where’s Mum?” Frank Westfall nodded towards the master bedroom.

“She was feeling tired, so she’s taking a nap. Oliver and your friend are in the study.” Bridget nodded, and walked over to the centre of operations. There, she found Vera and her brother, bent over some paperwork. The deputy governor was attempting to spell something, her cheeks a soft rose, and Oliver was correcting her finger positioning. Bridget flicked the light switch to signal her arrival, and they both looked up. 

“Hey,” she spoke and signed. “Found anything yet?” Vera shook her head, and replied: “We need Erica’s analytic skills.”

“Did someone say Erica?” Heads turned towards the doorway, where Erica and Will were standing, a smug grin on the honey blonde's face. Once greetings had been exchanged, the barrister and the guard bent over the papers that were strewn across the desk. 

 

In the midst of all the research, Bridget couldn’t help but let her thoughts wander to a certain brunette inmate. Over the past few weeks, Franky had returned to her old self, a shell of the woman she had worked so hard to become. She was silent; she was reclusive. Her hands were bandaged, and the doctor had said that all they could really do was hope and pray the skin would heal okay. She’d seen the way the medic had looked at nurse Rose, though, and it hadn’t been a positive one. Franky couldn’t sign, she couldn’t write, and she was refusing to speak. It felt like a lost cause.

 

They were sure Joan Ferguson was behind everything that had happened, but they had no proof. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her back. Oliver was standing behind her, and signed: “I can see it in your face. Don’t give up.” Bridget nodded, and replied: “How, when we have absolutely nothing?” Her brother sighed. 

 

Without warning, Erica slammed her hand down onto the desk, startling everyone in the room - with the exception of Oliver, who only followed the direction of the sudden snap of his sister’s neck.

“Ha! Gotcha!” the barrister exclaimed. “She’s going down!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest with you - this chapter was a struggle, which is why it took a while for me to write it, and also why it's a little short. The next one will be longer, and more eventful!


	14. Ramjet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ramjet is a form of airbreathing jet engine that uses the engine's forward motion to compress incoming air. Because ramjets cannot produce thrust at zero airspeed, they cannot move an aircraft from a standstill. A ramjet-powered vehicle, therefore, requires an assisted take-off like a rocket assist to accelerate it to a speed where it begins to produce thrust.

“What is it?” Bridget asked. “What did you find?” Erica only grinned, as she murmured: “Oh, you’ve messed up, Joanie.”

“What?” Oliver’s signing was quick and excited, and he nudged his sister’s shoulder, trying to get her to tell him what was going on. The honey-blonde barrister grabbed two sheets of paper out of the huge pile of files and held them up for everyone to see. Vera stepped closer so she could inspect them. She commented: “It’s an access log for the cafeteria, and one for the mailroom. So?”

“Check who accessed the cafeteria when inmate Francesca Doyle was attacked.” Bridget felt the muscles in her limbs contract at what Erica called Franky. The young brunette was so much more than just an inmate, and everything in the psychologist’s body wanted to protest: ‘It’s Franky!’ It didn’t matter right now, though. At this moment, she just wanted to find out whatever in God’s name the barrister had discovered that could bring down Joan Ferguson. She quickly worked to interpret everything that was being said for Oliver, who watched her signing closely. 

“We already know whose swipe card was used,” Will stated. “It was Liv Jones, and she retired last year. It would make sense if Ferguson had reactivated her card, but we can’t prove it.”

“Oh, but we can,” Erica responded, grinning. She handed Will the other document. “Just look.” Frowning, he did as he was told, scanning the list of names and timestamps. Suddenly, he began grinning just as Erica was.

“You’re pretty good, Davidson, I’ll give you that.” 

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Bridget asked, growing impatient. 

“Someone used Liv’s swipe card to access the mailroom, and the card used to exit, was Ferguson’s. According to the log, she was the only one in there at that time.” Erica looked incredibly pleased with herself as she pointed at the evidence. It was right there, in black on white.

“I’ll get the video feed from the mailroom tonight; I’ve got the night shift,” Vera announced. Will nodded, and added: “I’ll be the lookout.”

 

That evening, Bridget was still hiding out at the Westfall farm, having decided not to get any closer to Ferguson than absolutely necessary. Her heart was heavy with the agony of not being near Franky, but there was nothing she could do for her right now. She couldn’t interpret for her; she would only be a liability if she were to walk around the Wentworth grounds right now. So, she did the only thing she could do: she waited. And she interrogated her brother on his love life, because it was the kind of thing a sister did. Sitting out on the back deck, overlooking the pastures, she questioned: “So, how do you like my colleagues?” Silence surrounded them, with fireflies performing a synchronised dance nearby. One of the kittens was purring gently on her lap, the vibrations coursing through its entire little body. 

“They’re kind,” Oliver answered. “Of course, I knew Erica already, but Will and Vera are friendly too.”

“You seem to get along very well with Vera, huh?” Bridget asked, trying to suppress a smirk. Her brother shrugged, sighing. After a moment of no communication, he admitted: “She’s very intelligent, and she’s got a lovely soul.”

“But?”

“She’d never be into me,” Oliver signed, adding: “I’m a deaf farmer without a high school diploma. I’m dumb. I’m not like you, or Will, or Erica.” Bridget felt her heart break at his saddened admission. She touched his knee, then she signed: “That doesn’t make you any less worthy of love, Ollie.” He shook his head.

“She’s so far out of my league; we’re light years apart.”

“And would a dumb person correctly use the term ‘light years’?” she added. He grinned.

“I guess not.”

 

Vera held her breath as she accessed the surveillance computer. She knew Will was standing guard right outside the only door to the video room, but the thought of Governor Ferguson catching her was enough to make her hands shake. So far, opponents of the raven-haired woman hadn’t had very happy lives, and though she didn’t consider herself to have a wonderful life, she wasn’t about to get her mundane existence ruined by the woman. And yet, her sense of justice prevented her from standing by and doing nothing. Accessing the internal system, she noticed most of the video footage was marked ‘ _ Administrator Permissions Required _ ’. Cursing inwardly at Ferguson’s cunning, she scrolled down, hoping and praying the footage she was looking for would still be intact and available. Scanning the list, she clicked on  _ Camera 01063.  _ A pop-up immediately appeared, telling her  _ File Locked. Please enter password.  _ Vera took a deep breath, and decided to take a risk. She had been around the Governor so much, she had a feeling she might know what the woman would have chosen. Watching her own fingers as she typed, she entered  _ jianna _ . 

_ Access denied. Incorrect password. Remaining attempts: 2.  _

Vera was aware that the system would go into complete lockdown if she messed this up, and her user ID would be attached to the registration log. 

“Come on, Bennett, think,” she quietly told herself. This time, she tried  _ JiannaRiley _ .

_ Access denied. Incorrect password. Remaining attempts: 1. _

“Fuck!” she muttered. She had one more chance. Closing her eyes as she pressed enter, she tried her last option.

_ ShaneButler _

After ten seconds, she dared open her eyes again.


	15. Scramjet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A scramjet is a variant of a ramjet airbreathing jet engine in which combustion takes place in supersonic airflow, but whereas a ramjet decelerates the air to subsonic velocities before combustion, the airflow in a scramjet is supersonic throughout the entire engine. That allows the scramjet to operate efficiently at extremely high speeds.

The medical bay could very well be the most boring room of the entire prison, Franky thought to herself as she laid on the hospital bed. Her hands were still hurting like all hell, and there wasn’t much Rose could do to alleviate the pain, even though she had to admit the kind-hearted nurse really did try. She felt frustrated. She couldn’t write; couldn’t draw; couldn’t spell. She certainly couldn’t speak, even if she wanted to. She just couldn’t. Rose was bent over her desk, filling out paperwork while she waited for the newest dose of Franky’s painkillers to begin working. The brunette inmate stared down at the IV cannula in the crook of her left elbow. It felt strange to have it there, but her hands were too roughed-up to have it anywhere else. Rose had joked that otherwise, she’d have to stick a needle in her leg, which would require her to take off her pants. Franky had rolled her eyes and moved her arm towards the nurse. Baring her lower arm was more than enough. The morphine she had been given took the edge off, and it made her comfortably woozy. She watched the lights on the ceiling, marvelling at the brightness of them. Suddenly a shadow appeared in her peripheral view. Before she could realise what was happening, Rose was on the ground, and black gloves were approaching her.

 

_ Downloading file _

Vera let out a soft sigh of relief. All they had to do now was get the video feed to Erica, and she’d make sure it ended up on the right desks. She hadn’t felt this relieved in a very long time. It also meant she didn’t have to continue the charades acting as Ferguson’s devoted Deputy much longer either; it was finally over.

 

Suddenly a loud scream pierced through her thoughts. Will knocked on the door of the surveillance room and entered, shock visible on his features. 

“It came from medical,” he stated. “I can go check, but I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.” Vera shook her head immediately, and waved into the general direction of the medbay.

“Go! I’ll be fine, I’ve nearly got this.” The screen told her it was copying the file to her SD-card.

 

Bridget and Erica were sat in Bridget’s living room, attempting to watch a movie. ‘Attempt’ was a euphemism in this case; the only effort they had made was turning on the closed captions, but neither were actively watching the screen, nor was the barrister listening to the audio.

“It’s going to be okay,” Erica mumbled. When Bridget shot her a confused look, she realised her hearing aids were laid out on the coffee table. The honey-blonde crudely signed her comforting message, smiling gently. She raised her right hand, palm down, to the centre of her chest and moved it downwards.

“It’s calm?” Bridget inquired, trying to decipher what her friend was telling her. Shaking her head, Erica laughed and dumped the devices in the psychologist’s lap.

“Just wear the damn things.” Putting them in, Bridget responded: “I thought you knew Auslan better than that, Davidson.”

“Shut it, Westfall. I was trying to say it’ll be okay, smartarse.” Both women burst into a fit of nervous giggles.

 

“Jesus!” Will exclaimed as he walked into medical. He grabbed his radio from his belt and called out: “Sierra five, I need assistance in medical. I repeat, Sierra five, I need assistance in medical. We need paramedics.” He reached out to the big red button on his right and pressed down firmly, throwing Wentworth into lockdown. 

 

Rose was on the floor next to a desk; she had seemingly fallen from her chair. The chair itself had also tipped over, and papers had been sent flying. She had a cut on her forehead. He kneeled next to her and gently ran his hands over her cheeks.

“Rose? Rose, please wake up. Rose!” Will shook the slim nurse with moderate force. She groaned softly.

“Franky...check on Franky…” He rose and approached the girl on the bed, observing: “There’s a syringe in her IV.”

“I gave her morphine, but I would never leave the syringe in the access port,” Rose commented, clearing her throat as she slowly got into a sitting position against the desk. “What does the label say?” Will carefully removed the needle from the white membrane and checked the sticker.

“One hundred percent methanol, twenty millilitres.” That suddenly had Rose scrambling to her feet.

“We need to get an antidote into her system, right now. That’s a fatal dose.”

“What works against it?” Will asked, his eyes scanning the supplies of the in-house pharmacy.

“I’m not sure,” Rose murmured as she pulled a pharmacology book from the shelves, quickly flipping towards the M. “Fomepizole!” she called out, but her voice immediately lost its confidence. “Which we don’t have in stock.”

“Anything else?” Will asked, eyeing Franky with concern. 

“Ethanol,” Rose mumbled as she read the information in the book.

“Do we have that?”

 

A few doors down, Vera winced at the sudden sirens.

“Fuck,” she muttered, immediately inwardly apologising to God and her mother for the coarse language. 

_ Download complete _

She ejected her memory card from the computer and looked at the small drive in her hand. It was ridiculous that everything needed to indict  _ the  _ Joan Ferguson was on that tiny, tiny device. 

“I’ll be taking that.”


	16. Event Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A black hole is a region of spacetime exhibiting such strong gravitational effects that nothing—not even particles and electromagnetic radiation such as light—can escape from inside it. The theory of general relativity predicts that a sufficiently compact mass can deform spacetime to form a black hole. The boundary of the region from which no escape is possible is called the event horizon. Although the event horizon has an enormous effect on the fate and circumstances of an object crossing it, no locally detectable features appear to be observed. In many ways a black hole acts like an ideal black body, as it reflects no light.

Turning around, Vera came face-to-face with Joan Ferguson, whose tall frame towered over her own. 

“No.” The word had left her mouth before she had really had the chance to think about what she was going to do. There was only one thing running through her mind: ‘I can’t let her win. We can’t let her win.’ She tightened her grasp on the memory card and looked her opponent straight in the eye. It was by no means going to be a fair fight, but that didn’t mean she was going to give up without trying.

“No?” Governor Ferguson asked her with a sense of amused surprise. 

“No,” Vera repeated, suddenly rethinking her choice of wearing her uniform skirt today instead of trousers. The constricting garment would severely inhibit her movement. As Joan approached her, her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and she attempted to duck under the Governor’s arm. The taller woman grabbed her hand immediately and pulled her upwards by her wrist until her feet were off the floor. Pain shot through her shoulder at the sudden movement, and when Joan pressed down on the tendons at her carpal tunnel she couldn’t help but relax her fingers, letting a memory card drop to the floor. 

“That’s what I thought,” the older woman commented, grabbing the card and letting her Deputy go. “Go on now; we’re on lockdown.” She punctuated her demand with a polite smile, while venom dripped from her tongue. Vera let out a grunt of frustration before walking out, moving towards the medical bay.

 

In the meantime, the paramedics had arrived at the front entrance and were being led towards medical by an annoyed Linda Miles. 

“What’s wrong with the patient?” one of them asked.

“Dunno. Through here,” the blonde guard replied as she pushed the two attendants past a guarded door. Arriving at the medbay, they were immediately greeted by Will, who guided them towards Franky. One of the EMTs noticed Rose’s bleeding forehead, and approached her, asking: “Are you alright?” The brunette shook her head and responded: “I might have a concussion, but please, she’s the one in danger. I was knocked out, and someone gave her a shot of methanol.”

“Do we have an antidote?”

 

Bridget was pacing nervously through her living room while Erica was attempting to distract her by recalling old memories: “...and remember when poor James asked you to formal? The look on his face when he found out you were taking his sister Iris instead was hilarious!” 

“And you ended up going with James instead,” Bridget added, chuckling softly. Suddenly, Bridget’s phone went off, all lights blinking brightly. 

“That phone’s a freaking discotheque,” the barrister commented, shaking her head at the show of flashes. Bridget picked it up and handed it to Erica with shaking hands.

“It’s Will. I’m too nervous.” Nodding, the honey-blonde pressed 'speaker' and answered: “Bridget’s phone, Erica speaking.”

“ _ Erica? We’ve got a problem. Multiple problems, actually. _ ”

“What kind of problems?” Erica inquired, concern audible in her voice.

“ _Someone knocked Rose - the nurse - out and gave Franky a lethal poison in her bloodstream_ _  and Ferguson has Vera’s memory card kind of problems. _ ”

“Well fuck.”

Bridget felt like the air had just been punched out of her lungs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's this for quick updating, BigRed? ;)


	17. Blackout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In telecommunications, communications blackouts are a cessation of communications or communications capability, caused by a lack of power to a communications facility or to communications equipment, or a total lack of radio communications capability, caused by ionospheric anomalies, e.g., during strong auroral activity or during re-entry of a spacecraft into the Earth's atmosphere. The communications blackouts that affect spacecraft re-entering the Earth's atmosphere, which are also known as radio blackouts, ionization blackouts, or reentry blackouts, are caused by an envelope of ionized air around the craft, created by the heat from the compression of the atmosphere by the craft.

Bridget pulled up to the entrance of the Royal Melbourne Hospital, immediately running over to the front desk. 

“Hi,” she greeted the receptionist, “I’m looking for a Franky - Francesca - Doyle who was just brought in?” The young woman manning the desk quickly checked her computer, and shook her head.

“I work for Wentworth,” Bridget added, desperate to see the brunette. Sighing, the girl picked up the phone and dialled a short number.

“Renee? Yeah, I’ve got a...what’s your name, Ma’am?”

“Bridget Westfall.” The psychologist fought the urge to bite her bottom lip as she waited, looking around the hospital lobby. 

“I’ve got a Bridget Westfall here for Doyle. … Yeah? … Okay.”

“You’re not on the list, sorry.”

 

“I’m sure you understand you do not need to return for any remaining shifts this week, Miss Bennett.” The stern comment sent chills down Vera’s spine. Turning around to face Joan, she nodded her acknowledgement: “Yes, Governor.”

“I have drafted a letter of resignation for you, because I know how much you struggle with speaking up. All that is left is for you to sign it.” The tall woman spent extra attention enunciating the T at the end of the very last word, the alveolar stop echoing through her Deputy’s skull. Vera sighed, and nodded again. Joan swiftly handed her a slip of paper, stating:

 

_ Dear Ms Ferguson: _

_ Please accept this letter as notification that I am resigning from my position with Wentworth Prison on September 15. I apologize for not being able to provide notice. I regret that, due to circumstances beyond my control, I must resign immediately. _

_ Please let me know what the process will be for receiving my last paycheck and remaining benefits. _

_ I am happy to collect the paycheck through Human Resources, or you could have them mail it to my home address. _

_ Thank so much for the support that you have provided me during my tenure with the company. Your mentorship has helped me grow as a professional, and as a person. I admire your strengths and tenacity and I greatly appreciate your years of guidance. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Vera Bennett _

 

Vera couldn’t suppress an eye roll as she read the final paragraph, but held out her hand anyway. When Joan eyed her with confusion, she clarified: “If you want me to sign it, I’ll need a pen.” Huffing, the Governor pulled a ballpoint pen out of her breast pocket and handed it to her. As she signed the letter, Vera suddenly sneezed, causing Ferguson to pull a pair of gloves out of her blazer before she pulled the sheet of paper out of Vera’s hands again.

“Would you like your pen back?” the shorter woman asked, offering it to her. 

“Keep it.” The raven-haired woman observed the ballpoint as if it were radioactive; then, she walked away, but not before adding: “Leave your swipe card and uniform by the reception when you leave.”

“Yes, Governor,” Vera replied, smiling to herself. 

 

Bridget had been sitting on a plastic chair in the hospital lobby for hours now, refusing to leave, when a hand landed on her shoulder. Looking up, she was greeted by eyes as blue as her own. 

“Oliver?” she signed. “What are you doing here?”

“Will texted me,” her brother replied, taking a seat next to her. “And then when you weren’t home, I asked Erica where you were.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you are here,” the blonde stated stubbornly. 

“Because you are in love,” Oliver responded. “It’s as simple as that.” Blushing, Bridget shook her head.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she protested. Grinning, her brother told her: “Of course you don’t.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, gently rubbing her back. What he hadn’t told her, was that his parents had begged him to go take care of his sister, his mother telling him she was worried Bridget was letting her heart take over her life again. He had driven over to the city immediately, even though he hated Melbourne. His sister needed him. 

 

Vera drove over to Bridget’s house immediately after her shift. To her surprise, she found only Erica there. The honey-blonde barrister was gathering all the files they had amassed and was stashing them in binders and envelopes.

“What are you doing?” the Deputy - no, ex-Deputy - asked her, touching her hands to stop her. Erica shrugged.

“Archiving the case files. We have a lot, but nothing I can take to the police or to court. It’s all I can do; keep them safe. Until a miracle occurs and the files I need land on this table right now, Ferguson has won.” Vera grinned in response, and let her jacket drop to the floor. When she began unbuttoning her blouse, Erica protested: “If you’re trying to seduce me, you’ve got the wrong blonde in front of you.” Chuckling nervously, the brunette shook her head. She bared her torso and reached into her bra, producing something tiny and dropping it on top of Erica’s files.

“Well...should I call the Vatican then?” the barrister asked, suddenly sporting a grin just as bright as Vera’s own.

 

Oliver’s attention was caught by a woman in a nurse’s uniform standing in front of him, moving her lips with an annoyed look on her face. He gently shook his sister, who had fallen asleep with her head in his lap. Bridget woke quickly, blinking at him before he pointed at the woman speaking to them. The younger Westfall sibling said something to the woman, after which the woman seemed a lot more friendly in the way she approached them. He relied on Bridget for the interpretation, after that.

“Miss Westfall?” the nurse asked. “You were here for Miss Francesca Doyle?”

“Yes,” Bridget confirmed, “may I see her, please?” The employee nodded.

“A Will Jackson has just approved your visit. Just follow route 143, to your right there.” She pointed at a hallway that was fairly empty.

“Thank you,” the psychologist told her before jumping to her feet and dragging Oliver upright by his hands. “Let’s go!”

 

As the Westfall siblings started making their way down the hallway, Oliver noticed a sign marking the different routes. 

_ Morgue - Route 143 _


	18. Touchdown

“No…” Bridget whispered as she realised which way they were headed. Her hands began trembling, and her steps halted. “This can't be right,” she signed. Oliver lifted his right hand in front of his chest and moved his palm towards her: “Wait.” He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and quickly sent a text message.

_ O. Westfall: Route 143? _

Within a few seconds, the device vibrated in his hands and the flash started blinking.

_ W. Jackson: Yes. See you there. _

“It's correct, according to Will.” He grasped his sister’s hand tightly and pulled her along with the gentlest force. “Come on, little Bridget.”

 

Nearing the morgue, they were met by yet another employee sitting behind a desk. The elderly woman gave them a gentle smile, before asking: “Good evening, how may I help you?” Oliver looked down at his sister, but she seemed too distraught to respond. He took out a small notepad he always carried around and wrote down:  _ Hello. I am deaf. We are here to see someone. _ Nodding, the woman turned her computer screen towards him and typed:  _ Your full names please, and who are you here for _ ?

_ Bridget Emma Westfall and Oliver Timothy Westfall, for Francesca Doyle _ , he wrote back. The employee took the note from him and launched a search query in the system. Very quickly, though, she shook her head at him, typing:  _ I'm sorry, I can't find that anywhere in the database. Are you sure this is the right hospital?  _

“I'm certain,” Bridget whispered and signed. Suddenly a hand tapped on the psychologist’s shoulder. Both Westfall siblings turned to face whoever was behind them, and found Will standing there with a solemn look on his face.

“This way.”

 

Erica eyed the memory card Vera had placed on Bridget’s dining table with surprise. 

“But, how?” she asked. “Will said Ferguson took your card when everything went to hell.” Smirking, Vera replied: “Oh, she took  _ a  _ memory card. That much is true, but the one she has now contains a copy of a couple of episodes of Sesame Street I recorded for my neighbour.” 

“Miss Bennett, you are a genius!” the barrister exclaimed, picking up her phone and dialling a number. The recipient picked up after it had run only once.

“ _ Brass, Victorian Police _ .”

“Jim? It's Erica Davidson.”

“ _ And to what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Davidson? _ ”

“Remember the prison thing I told you about?”

“ _ Of course I remember the prison thing. You didn't have enough evidence for me to be able to do anything. _ ” Grinning, Erica lowered her voice to a sultry tone and replied: “But now we do. I'm emailing you the copies right now.”

“ _ I'll get a warrant as soon as I can. _ ”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. There's something else I think you might need to look into.” 

 

Will lead the brother and sister through a maze of hallways before reaching a stairwell and climbing two storeys. Oliver wondered, as Bridget voiced for him: “Why did we get sent to the morgue?”

“You'll see,” was the only thing Will mumbled in response, continuing down the seemingly never-ending labyrinth. 

 

When Will finally halted in front of a closed door, Oliver wondered whether they were even still in the hospital, but he kept still, watching his sister closely. The guard opened it, and revealed a small corridor where a blonde woman was sitting next to a door that was slightly ajar. She too was wearing a guard uniform, and looked positively bored, tapping away at what seemed to be a mobile game. He thought he'd seen her before, but he wasn't sure where. 

“Hi Linda,” Bridget greeted the other blonde, happy to see another familiar face, even if the other woman was incredibly unwilling to be there. Linda quickly nodded their way, too engrossed in her game to give them a genuine greeting.

“Why the morgue? Why the long travel? Why here?” the psychologist asked once more, touching Will’s elbow. He sighed, and replied: “So no-one knows where she really is unless we want them to know.” 

Will stepped past her, and led the Westfall siblings into the room. A soft gasp could be heard as Bridget entered, and she immediately walked over to the bed in the corner of the room. Franky was hooked up to multiple IV lines and a large machine was pumping her blood in and out of her body while passing it through filters, and she looked absolutely miserable, but she was  _ alive _ . The psychologist didn't even notice the other people present in the room until someone cleared their throat behind her. “Good evening, Miss,” the stout middle-aged man offered. “My name is James Brass, Detective Inspector. This is Wendy Curtis from the crime lab,” he added, nodding towards the redhead to his left. 

“Good evening,” Bridget replied, working to interpret everything the man was saying for her brother. “I'm Bridget Westfall, forensic psychologist at Wentworth Correctional Centre. This is my brother, Oliver Westfall.” Oliver attempted to greet the policeman and the criminalist with a smile. Franky’s eyes opened slightly the moment his sister began speaking. He took a step closer to her and laid his fingertips on the brunette’s shoulder, trying to offer her some comfort while Bridget spoke with the others. 

“The pleasure is ours, Miss Westfall,” Inspector Brass continued. “We're here because we needed to speak with Miss Doyle, and Mister Jackson mentioned you've helped her communicate before.” Nodding, Bridget affirmed: “Yes, but since her hands are still injured, I doubt I can be of much help.” The room became completely silent except for the beeping of machines as all eyes landed on the inmate in the bed. Franky was tired, everything hurt, she couldn't see well, and she was nauseated beyond what was reasonable in her opinion, but the hand on her shoulder, whoever it belonged to, was comforting. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she suddenly whispered: “I'll speak.”

 

Joan Ferguson was sitting in her living room, her laptop on the coffee table, and pushed a tiny memory card into the SD slot of the device. Her operating system quickly scanned the files and asked her what she wanted to do with them. She selected  _ Play _ and relaxed against the cushions behind her, taking a sip of her wine.

“ _ Sunny Day _ __  
_ Sweepin' the clouds away _ __  
_ On my way to where the air is sweet _ __  
_ Can you tell me how to get _ _  
_ _ How to get to Sesame Street_ ”

The crystal wine glass clattered to the tile floor, leaving a burgundy stain in its wake.

“No…”

A loud bang followed as multiple police officers suddenly entered her home, surrounding her within an instant.

“Joan Ferguson, we have a warrant for your arrest, on the suspicion of grievous bodily harm with intent, obstruction of justice, computer fraud, larceny, forgery and attempted murder of the first degree. You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?”

Joan could only laugh in disbelief.  _ Well played, Miss Bennett. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to kill her off AGAIN. ;)
> 
> The lyrics used belong to Joe Raposo, Jon Stone and Bruce Hart.
> 
> For anyone interested, the treatment for severe methanol poisoning consists of ethanol, lavage, IV fluids, sodium bicarbonate, and haemodialysis. Methanol is so dangerous due to the fact that when methanol is broken down by the body it results in formaldehyde, formic acid, and formate, which cause much of the toxicity. Long-term exposure and/or high doses may result in kidney failure and permanent blindness. So, uh, don't drink windshield washer fluid, yeah? ;)


	19. Quasar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quasar (/ˈkweɪzɑːr/) (also known as a quasi-stellar object) is an active galactic nucleus (AGN) of very high brightness. Most large galaxies contain a supermassive central black hole. In quasars, the black hole is surrounded by a gaseous accretion disk. As the gas in the accretion disk falls toward the black hole, energy is released in the form of electromagnetic radiation - light, if you will. Quasars emit energy across the electromagnetic spectrum and can be observed at radio, infrared, visible, ultraviolet, and X-ray wavelengths. The most powerful quasars have luminosities exceeding 1041 W, thousands of times greater than an ordinary large galaxy such as the Milky Way.

“We now have strong reason to believe you were not responsible for the burglary and bodily harm of Mister and Mrs Nguyen,” Detective Brass told Franky, taking a seat on a chair at the foot of the bed. The brunette was flanked by Oliver on one side and Bridget on the other, both of them touching her shoulders. 

“How?” Franky whispered, not daring to look the man in the eyes. Brass grinned.

“I think you have the woman next to you to thank for that, if I understood Miss Davidson correctly.” Bridget blushed, gazing at her feet.

“Really?” The younger woman moved to carefully nudge the blonde, making sure she wasn’t tangling any IV lines. 

“With some help from Mister Jackson, Miss Bennett, a lawyer friend of mine, and Oliver,” Bridget replied. “I didn’t do it all by myself. I could never have done it all by myself.”

“So, what now?” The question came from Oliver, and all heads turned towards the Detective Inspector. The stout policeman cleared his throat, scratched his balding head and replied: “We’re going to take your statement on your charges once more, and then Miss Davidson will take everything to the judge.”

“And then?” Franky asked, feeling Bridget’s grip on her shoulder tightened. She wished she could grasp her palm, feel the softness of her skin. The blonde’s hands were special to her. They were so elegant, and so deft - fluent, even. Through her hands, she had taught her to communicate, and now, she was speaking to a man she didn’t even know. If her mother could see her now, she probably wouldn’t even believe it.

“Then, well,” Brass began, “that’s not really up to me.” Nodding, Franky went silent again.

“Tired?” Bridget asked. She nodded. “Then sleep, sweetheart.” The psychologist surprised herself with the term of endearment, but if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. Though, as focused as she was on Franky, she didn’t catch the smiles on Oliver’s and Will’s faces. 

 

Erica Davidson checked her appearance in the mirrors of the ladies’ room once more, just to be certain. An intern from her firm grinned. 

“You look fine, Miss Davidson.” Erica blushed, smoothing down the imaginary wrinkles of her blouse before replying: “Thanks, Catherine.”

“You’ve got a busy caseload today, huh? The people vs. Ferguson, and the acquittal of Doyle? Both of them are pretty media-heavy, I’ve heard.” 

“You just want in, don’t you?” Erica joked. “Fine. I could use someone to help me keep track of all of the files. You up for it?”

“Definitely!”

Minutes later, both law experts walked into the courtroom, and Erica began preparing everything for her opening statement.  _ You’re going down, Ferguson _ . 


	20. Epilogue: The Sound of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please note I have uploaded chapters 19 and 20 at the same time; make sure you've read chapter 19 before you read this one!]
> 
> Silence is the lack of audible sound or presence of sounds of very low intensity. By analogy, the word silence can also refer to any absence of communication or hearing, including in media other than speech and music. Silence is also used as a form of nonverbal communication. It is an important factor in many cultural spectacles, as in rituals.

The weather was gentle as the small group of people left the church.

“Thank you,” Bridget thanked the interpreter, “I wouldn’t know what I would have done without you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Miss,” the man replied, nodding at the ensemble before leaving them standing in the warmth of the sun.

“It was a beautiful service,” Frank Westfall signed, stepping closer to his daughter who was dressed in white, and pushed an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. 

“Just as she wanted it,” Oliver added, pulling an arm around his sister’s shoulders. 

“I just wish I could have met her.”

 

Bridget turned to Franky, smiling sadly. 

“At least she got to leave us peacefully. Mum would’ve loved you, you know.” The brunette raised an eyebrow at her statement, objecting: “A convict? I doubt that.”

“Ex-convict,” Erica interjected. “Might I remind you that you’ve been acquitted of all charges? Your name has been cleared.” Franky only shrugged in response. She reached out for Bridget’s elbow so the blonde could help her traverse the distance to their car.

“Your vision still hasn’t recovered, huh?” the honey-blonde barrister asked her, offering Frank an arm for support as well. 

“Doctors say they don’t know when, or even if, it will.” Franky honestly didn’t care. She was free. If that meant she had to live with blurry vision, she’d take it. She’d lived the first three decades of her life without speech; she could learn to deal with this. If anything, her throat was still getting used to uttering words every now and then. She probably would never be a big talker, but it didn’t matter. She was free, in more ways than one.

 

“So what will you two be doing now?” Erica asked, addressing Will and Vera. The Kiwi guard shrugged. 

“I’ve got an evening shift tomorrow, so that, I guess,” he replied. 

“Vera?”

“I’m not sure,” the ex-deputy responded truthfully. “I’ve been offered my job back, but I’m not sure whether I’ll take it.” Bridget eyed her father and brother for permission before suggesting: “Oliver might have a solution for that. He’d like to ask you something.” All eyes landed on the older Westfall sibling. Blushing, he softly voiced: “Stay here, with us.” His speech was heavily accented and he tripped over his words, but Vera gasped softly.

“We could use an extra pair of hands around here now that Mum’s gone,” Bridget added. 

“Did you learn that just to ask me?” Vera asked, wonder in her voice. Bridget quickly interpreted what she was asking. Oliver nodded shyly, averting his gaze. Smiling, Vera raised onto the tips of her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then touched her fingers to her chin and moved her hand away from her body, after which she touched her wrist and angled her fist.  _ Thank you. Yes. _

 

Hours later when the setting sun was colouring the sky in shades of red and orange, Bridget found herself in the hay loft of the Westfall family farm once again, but this time she wasn’t accompanied by her brother, nor was she alone. As she leant back against the bales of dried grass, Franky sat down next to her. 

“Gidge?” Franky spelled, enjoying the comforting silence. 

“Yes?” Bridget signed back, her dress riding up her thighs as she reclined further until she was lying on her back. 

“What do I do now?” The brunette bit her lip nervously. Smiling, the psychologist replied: “Whatever you want to do. Travel, stay here, anything.”

“And what if I want to kiss you?” the younger woman asked, voicing her question.

“Then kiss me.”

 

Franky’s lips immediately connected with Bridget’s, and the blonde’s head felt like it was spinning. She grasped the brunette’s hands to ground herself, to remain connected to reality. The other woman’s hands explored every bit of skin they could find, until Bridget had been rendered breathless. They didn’t speak nor sign a word as they undressed each other, and when they finally, finally connected in the most intimate way, Franky could have sworn the world went completely silent, in an absolute absence of sounds. There was nothing but Bridget. She could feel the psychologist’s hand form a sign against her chest as she tilted her hips. Franky covered her hands with her own to feel what she was trying to say, and her heart filled with warmth when she realised exactly what the blonde was communicating.

“I love you too,” she whispered, holding her close as the woman in her arms toppled over the edge. Watching her through lidded eyes, Bridget reached between them and touched her in exactly the right places, making her follow her off the cliff within moments, holding on tightly as she rode out the waves.

 

“Stay?” the blonde whispered.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for coming along on this adventure with me. I started this story nearly a year ago, and now that it's come to an end, the feeling is a bittersweet one. This has been one of the longest stories - if not the longest story - I have ever written, and I couldn't have done it without all of you. I am so, so grateful for your support. You're all lovely, and amazing, and you can accomplish anything you want as long as you offer the world the kindness you have offered me in your comments. Please, take care, and I'd love to see you again elsewhere on this website, or anywhere else. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Belle van S.

**Author's Note:**

> "Hey Belle, don't you already have multiple stories in progress?"   
> Yes. Yes I do.
> 
> Thank you for reading this first chapter! Please let me know what you think!


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